by Brad Thor
The mid-level Moroccan provided excellent intel, but it didn’t lead to his superiors; instead it led to Ozan Kalachka—a man whose armstrade turf the Moroccans were trying to cut in on. Despite all the Monday morning quarterbacking, no one disputed that the agents working the case had done everything exactly as they were supposed to. It was the first and last time anyone ever got the better of the DEA in a case of that magnitude, but it could not be denied that during its execution Scot Harvath had almost made one of the biggest mistakes of his career, if not his life.
At six feet tall and well over three hundred pounds, the sixty-two-year-old Ozan Kalachka nearly measured the same side-to-side as he did up-and-down. With his impeccable taste in clothing and neatly groomed silver hair, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor known as the Fat Man—Sydney Greenstreet. Many mistook Kalachka’s excessive weight as a sign of lethargy and weakness—an indication that he was soft and slow. That was the mistake Harvath had made when the joint task force attempted to arrest the reputed Turkish mobster, and it nearly cost Harvath one of his eyes. Though one would have to look very closely to see it, he still bore the scar from the encounter above his left cheekbone. And in what was more of a testament to his hot temper than his training as a SEAL, Harvath had bestowed upon the Turk the limp with which he still walked to this day.
Both men, each in his own way, had misjudged the other and had lived to regret it—Kalachka for his limp, and Harvath, not so much for his scar, but rather for the shame of underestimating an opponent and letting him get the better of him. When the physical and legal dust had settled, the encounter had resulted in lessons neither of them would ever forget. The DEA, having been duped by the Moroccans, had nothing substantial they could charge Kalachka with, and were forced to stand down. Kalachka, though, had been wronged and intended to inflict maximum damage on the Moroccans who had set him up. Two months after checking out of the hospital, Kalachka sent the lead DEA agent a file three inches thick, which led to the absolute ruin of the Moroccans’ organization.
The entire experience was unusual at best, but even more unusual was the friendship it spawned—a friendship between the man with the limp and the man with the scar. The relationship had actually served Harvath well on more than one occasion. Not that Ozan Kalachka was generous with information. Kalachka was the epitome of the word profiteer. The man never made a single move that didn’t somehow benefit him first and foremost. That said, Kalachka exhibited something that could only be loosely described as a sort of paternal fondness for Harvath. When all was said and done, the man liked him, and to a certain degree, Harvath felt the same way in return.
“Fixer” was the best way to describe Kalachka and what he did for a living. He brokered everything from arms and real estate deals to crooked foreign elections, banana republic revolutions, and assassinations many felt were too difficult or too politically sensitive to attempt. Even the Israelis had employed Kalachka at one time.
Though Israeli Kidon agents had carried out the hits, Kalachka was the person who had blueprinted the assassinations of all the members of Black September—the Palestinian terrorists responsible for the killing of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics. The Israelis hired him again in a consulting capacity in 1976 and were rewarded with the successful recovery of Israeli hostages from Entebbe, Uganda.
In an attempt to broaden his revenue base, Kalachka, it was said, had offered his services to the United States on two separate occasions and both Presidents Kennedy and Carter had turned him down. Kennedy had said no to Kalachka’s suggestions for taking out Castro in lieu of what would become known as the Bay of Pigs fiasco, and Carter had passed on Kalachka’s ideas for how to successfully recover the American hostages from Tehran. Despite the affinity of several other countries for Kalachka’s talents and abilities, the United States had never warmed to him.
As far as Harvath was concerned, though, as long as Kalachka was helping to organize the assassinations of known terrorists and overthrow corrupt regimes, he was okay. His dealings in the black-market arms trade were among the gray areas that were easier to look at in light of the good he’d done elsewhere.
Kalachka was one of the few people he had ever met who not only knew who he was, but made no apologies for it. No matter how charming and cordial on the outside, the real Ozan Kalachka was a ruthless creature who worked the very outermost fringes of what was legal and would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. The hundred-thousand-dollar question at the moment, though, was what did Kalachka want from him?
Closing his eyes, Harvath tried to put the question out of his mind and was immediately burdened by something else. If Carmichael was successful in dragging him into the media spotlight and destroying his career, what was he going to do with the rest of his life? Depending on how bad a number the senator did on him, he might or might not be able to go into the private sector as a consultant.
Regardless, if Carmichael forced him into the spotlight, there would always be a bull’s-eye painted on his back, and no career other than what he was doing right at this very moment would ever be satisfying for him. Harvath had spent most of his adult life in service to his country and had no desire to see that change.
For the time being, though, he had very little control over his situation. He had to trust that people like Gary Lawlor, the president, and even Chuck Anderson were not going to let him burn for simply doing his job. In a matter of hours his plane would be landing and he would discover what Ozan Kalachka wanted from him.
FOURTEEN
B ÜYÜK H AMAM
N ICOSIA , C YPRUS
N EXT D AY
H arvath leaned back against the octagonal tiles and breathed deeply. The searing heat of the saunalike chamber known as a göbek tasi felt like bags of broken glass being poured into his lungs. He fought back a coughing fit and willed himself to relax. Taking another deep breath, Harvath realized that he’d become so wrapped up in his job that he’d actually forgotten how to relax. He knew it was an integral component of rejuvenation, and as he felt his lungs loosen up and the dry heat overtake him, he tried to remember the last time he had allowed himself any legitimate downtime. As long as there are terrorists, he began to say to himself, but pushed the thought from his mind. Whether he chose to take a vacation or not had nothing to do with terrorism. It had everything to do with him. It was easy to make the excuse that he had no time for anything else but work.
In the post-9/11 world in which Harvath lived, relentless dedication to one’s work had stopped being admirable a while ago and was now simply de rigueur. While no one would say his priorities were out of whack, they definitely came at the price of his social life. Even his on-again, off-again girlfriend, Meg Cassidy, was reaching the end of her rope with him. How could you have a relationship with someone who was never home? Harvath didn’t blame her. He had watched his mother go through the same thing with his father. It wasn’t until Michael Harvath had transferred out of active Navy SEAL duty to become an instructor at the Navy’s Special Warfare School near their home in Coronado that his mother had been truly happy. Harvath had no intention of becoming an instructor of anything at this point in his career and had told Meg that he would understand if she chose to move on with her life. She was a great lady and he had no desire to hold her back. Besides, getting married and starting a family were not what he wanted to do right now.
When Meg asked him what he did want to do, he was brutally honest with her. “This. I want to keep sticking it to the bad guys before they stick it to us.”
It was at that moment that Meg knew she not only didn’t have him, she never would. However Scot Harvath wanted to paint it, he was married to his career and there wasn’t much room for anything or anyone else in his life.
They had kissed in the driveway of her cottage in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, over two months ago, and that was the last time they had seen or spoken to each other. Harvath still had no idea when he would be back home for any real stretch of time, nor di
d he have any illusions that she’d be waiting for him. In fact, she had all but said that she was going to move on with her life. As difficult as all of that was to deal with, right now he was grateful for the few precious moments he’d been granted to rest his tired mind and somewhat battered body in this sauna halfway around the world. The reprieve, though, was short-lived.
A cold rush of air signaled the arrival of a newcomer. “Interesting choice for a rendezvous, Ozan,” said Harvath.
Kalachka joined Harvath on the long, porcelain-tiled bench and responded, ”I’m a Turk, and like all good Turks, I cling to my heritage. The Hamam has been an integral part of our lives for centuries.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, Ozan.”
Kalachka wiped the sweat from his heavily perspiring face and said, “As you know, I’ve proposed a trade.”
“Yeah, my government’s very aware of that. I want to know everything you know about this illness, why Muslims seem to be immune to it, and how al-Qaeda has been able to pull this off. And finally one very big item: my government wants to know how the hell you got your hands on classified video footage.”
“All in good time.”
“Bullshit, let’s start with the footage,” said Harvath. “I knew you were well connected, but this is unbelievable. Who the hell do you have on your payroll? Or are you blackmailing someone in the Department of Defense?”
“Scot, you should know me better than that. I am no blackmailer.”
Harvath laughed. “I don’t even know the first thing about you, and you know what? I don’t want to know. Tell me about the illness.”
Kalachka shook his head. “First, I need something from you.”
“Of course, right to the price tag. I forget that everything costs with you, doesn’t it, Ozan? Even friendship.”
For a moment, Kalachka didn’t look at Harvath. Finally, he turned to him and said, “It’s about my nephew.”
“You’ve got a nephew?” replied Scot.
“He’s my sister’s only son, and even though he’s always been a little too Muslim for my taste, he’s still family and I promised to—”
“Ozan, I have no time and even less patience. Regardless of how you see yourself, you’ve blackmailed my government into a corner, and I’ve been instructed to work with you and do anything within my power to facilitate this exchange, so enough beating around the bush. What kind of trouble are we talking about here? Spit it out already.”
As Kalachka looked at Harvath, it was difficult to tell whether it was sweat or tears rimming the older man’s eyes. “My nephew has been kidnapped.”
“By whom?”
Kalachka hesitated. “I have my suspicions, but I can’t be positive about anything.”
“You’d be surprised how accurate suspicions can be in these situations. Let’s back up a second, though. How do you know he’s been kidnapped? Has there been a ransom demand?”
“No, but there were witnesses. Dozens of them,” said the Turk. “He was grabbed off a street in Bangladesh in broad daylight. Three men wearing ski masks and carrying automatic weapons plucked him off the sidewalk near his office in Dhaka and then drove him away.”
“What about the car?” asked Harvath, still skeptical.
“Stolen. The police found it abandoned the next day.”
“Any idea why somebody would want to take him?”
Kalachka wiped his face yet again and replied, “I think it has something to do with what he was working on.”
“Which was what?”
“He’s a scientist, neuromolecular biology something or other. I have never pretended to understand it. Suffice it to say that he’s a very intelligent young man.”
“Ozan, what was he working on?” repeated Harvath, who was starting to get a very bad feeling.
Kalachka couldn’t stall any longer. He threw up his hands and answered, “He was one of the scientists working on the sword of Allah project.”
Harvath was beyond shocked. “Your nephew is responsible for all of this?”
“Trust me,” said Kalachka, “when he accepted the position with the Islamic Institute for Science and Technology, he did so intending to do great things for the Muslim world. The scientists there had no idea what they were working on. Everyone on the project was kept separate from one another. It wasn’t until they were nearing the end that Emir was able to fit the pieces together. But by then, someone had begun silencing all of the people involved. It had to be someone from the institute.”
Harvath took a towel and wiped the back of his neck. “I think you’re wrong.”
“What do you mean, wrong?” replied Kalachka. “It makes perfect sense. He put the pieces together, they found out that he was going to expose them, and so they kidnapped him.”
“To do what? Scare him to death? Put him in a room with nothing to do and bore him to death? Think about it, Ozan. All the other scientists were killed. Not kidnapped. The only reason that would have happened was if he was of value to someone. Did anyone else know what your nephew was working on?”
Kalachka was silent for several moments. “I asked him the same thing right before he disappeared.”
“And?”
“He was e-mailing someone.”
“Who?”
“Another scientist. Someone he went to university in England with. She’s a specialist who Emir thought might be able to help him better understand what he was dealing with.”
“So why are you talking to me? Why not this woman?” asked Harvath.
“Because she’s not an operator. She’s not in the business of recovering hostages.”
“But she’s your only lead.”
“There’s something else,” said Kalachka, as he reached next to him and lifted several photos that had been encased in clear plastic sleeves.
“Pictures of your nephew,” said Harvath, resigning himself to what he was going to have to do. “I suppose they would be helpful.”
“They might be more helpful than you think,” stated Kalachka. “Look at them carefully.”
Harvath studied the first two photographs. They showed the actual kidnapping in perfect detail. “Where’d you get these?”
“There was a newly installed security camera on the exterior of the bank across the street. What do you see?”
“I see what looks like the kidnapping of your nephew,” replied Harvath.
“Look at the last picture in the series, as Emir is being shoved into the car. The Mercedes’s windows are blacked out, but in the frame when the door opens, you can see that there’s a man inside.”
As Harvath looked closer at the photo, he saw that Kalachka was right. There definitely was a man sitting inside the Mercedes, and he wasn’t wearing anything to disguise his appearance. It wasn’t a tight enough shot, though, to make a positive identification. Harvath was just about to mention that, when Kalachka handed him the final photograph and said, “I had it digitally enhanced. Tell me what you see now.”
Harvath looked at the photo and saw a face he had hoped never to see again. It was now apparent why Kalachka had asked for him. “You know goddamn well who that is, “He said.
Kalachka’s eyes sparkled as he replied, “And so do you, don’t you?”
Harvath’s head was awash with images. Timothy Rayburn was ex-Secret Service. He had been one of the agency’s best and also one of its most dangerous. He had been Harvath’s earliest mentor, and Harvath had personally seen to it that the man’s employment was terminated and that he could never work for another federal, state, or local law enforcement agency ever again.
“Find Rayburn,” said Kalachka, pulling Harvath’s mind from the past, “and you’ll find the information you need to stop the illness.”
FIFTEEN
A s his dented taxicab crawled through the crowded streets of Nicosia, Harvath’s mind spun. After the Secret Service had effectively barred Rayburn from ever working in law enforcement again, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the man had found a way
to ply his trade overseas. Harvath reminded himself that there were people out there who would pay big money for what Rayburn could do for them, regardless of his ethics. Based on what Harvath had seen, the man would sell his services to the highest bidder and relegate any pangs of conscience to a remote and dark corner of his psyche. If nothing else, at least Rayburn remained consistent. He had always been about the money, and that was what had gotten him cut from the Secret Service.
Harvath remembered the affair, and more importantly the betrayal, in vivid detail. Ex-military himself, Rayburn had taken a shine to Harvath the moment the new recruit had transferred from the SEALs to the Secret Service. Like many federal law enforcement agencies, the Secret Service often rotated highly skilled field agents through the classrooms at their training facility in Beltsville, Maryland. That was where Harvath and Rayburn had met. Not only did the two become close friends, but Rayburn became somewhat of an older brother figure to Harvath, riding him harder than the other students and saying he owed it to Harvath to be tough on him. Insiders like Rayburn knew why Harvath had been recruited to the Secret Service. They were all very well aware that it was because of his vast counterterrorism background and that he was headed for a special post at the White House.
A self-confessed “old dog in need of some new tricks, “Rayburn took a keen interest in Harvath’s SEAL career and the current way things were being done in the world of counterterrorism. The two spent many late nights bonding over pitchers of beer in several Beltsville taverns. Though Harvath hadn’t noticed it at the time, Rayburn was slowly and methodically picking his brain. And it didn’t end in Beltsville. When Harvath graduated, Rayburn had himself assigned to spend time with the freshly minted field agent.
